


Remains

by MercuryAlice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Only looks like the end, Pandemic - Freeform, Promise, eventual Mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryAlice/pseuds/MercuryAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wait for the cough. It was coming. He could feel it, as he could feel his pulse jump under his finger tips more than it should when he cared to check; could feel his skin heat even as he felt colder. Wait for the cough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remains

The evidence was everywhere; you couldn’t miss it if you tried. In the space of a few days after the news reports of a H5-N7 going rogue and mutating, the hospitals were far past breaking point and things were falling apart on a massive scale. Given the quarantine restrictions and rising violence, there wasn’t even much he could do but watch on in horror as the city, and the world, began to deteriorate in front of his eyes. At the end of the day, Lestrade could hardly blame people for panicking. Hell, if he could get past the muted horror, he’d probably be panicking along with them. But as it stood, he couldn’t. For the time being, all he felt capable of was surviving until the next day and hoping against hope that the pandemic burnt itself out quickly. How long could this keep up? Just how long could it possibly be before all this was over and you could breathe without fear of infection? Surely it couldn’t become the future standard of life for people to just drop with barely any warning and die because there was nothing anyone could do. Even the hospitals were powerless, which was proven in the first few days as they were flooded with first the ill, then with the dead; mass graves cut into the earth just to make space for more.

 

There was nothing he, or anyone else, could do. The Yard was dismissed and useless against the all encompassing panic, with what was left of the army stepping in to try and keep some order and ultimately flagging miserably. So far, over half the people he’d ever known or worked with were either somewhere in the gaping pits the dotted the city, or vanished; likely just as dead but in their homes or simply boarded up waiting for whatever end this would come to. Then the fires started. First in an attempt to dispose of the dead, then either spreading or being set across London and every other city on the planet; as if the earth itself was trying to scorch itself clean of the virus.

 

From the left window on the far side of the living room, he could stand and watch the smoke blanket upwards against the orange tinged backlight of the flames only a few kilometres away; pin pricks of light and darkness spread out as far as he could see, lighting up the night that would have been pitch after the grid went out two days ago along with everything else. There was no one to run things like that anymore, either already dead or too frightened to bother with something like their job. And again, Greg couldn’t blame them in the slightest for being terrified. He didn’t stand in the window for long. The light refracted off the glass in his hand constantly and for some reason that little inconsequential thing made him sadder than looking out even did. With a very quiet scraping noise, the curtains fell shut again as the cord was tugged with leaden fingers. What were you supposed to do when everything was all but over? Wait for the cough, he supposed bleakly; draining the glass and focussing on the burn down his throat for a moment with closed eyes.

 

Wait for the cough. It was coming. He could feel it, as he could feel his pulse jump under his finger tips more than it should when he cared to check; could feel his skin heat even as he felt colder. Wait for the cough. His eyes opened again and the glass slipped from his fingers almost in slow motion, shattering in surround sound as the first fit wracked him; a harsh bark that sent him stumbling half into the wall and flecks of blood painting the fist that came up on instinct to block the sound. When Greg straighten again with a ragged gasp, the flat was already spinning like a top so he mused hazily that he really couldn’t be blamed for missing the counter as he reached for it; the hardwood floor seemingly eager to meet him as he caught his weight briefly on jarred wrists before he was staring at what he supposed was the ceiling. Hitting the deck on the living room floor, there were worse places to go. Wait for the cough. Wait for the delirium. Wait for the dark. Wait. 


End file.
